


Hate Who I Hate, Kill Who I Kill

by Madame (McKay)



Series: The Monkees Soap Opera [4]
Category: The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-27 21:49:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10817427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McKay/pseuds/Madame
Summary: The Vietnam War becomes more than just a story in the news for Micky.





	Hate Who I Hate, Kill Who I Kill

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 1998. Any song lyrics belong to Mike Nesmith and/or The Monkees. They aren't original to me.

**February, 1968—**  
  
  


Micky let out a whoop of delight as he sprinted across the wet sand, heading for the ocean once more. That last ride had been perfect—he'd felt the power of the wave surging beneath him as he managed to maintain his balance on the surf all the way without even coming close to wiping out—and he was anxious to see if he could repeat it.

"Micky!"

He paused, listening past the roar of the ocean and the squawking seagulls overhead, wondering if the sound of his name had been real or something he imagined. 

"Micky!"

There it was again. He turned to see Mike's girlfriend Isabel running towards him, her hands cupped around her mouth to help her voice carry over the sound of the crashing waves.

He lay his surfboard out of the reach of the incoming tide and jogged to meet her; as soon as she was close enough, he stopped, bent over and shook his head wildly, slinging water from his soaked hair everywhere. Isabel yelped and jumped back to avoid the spray.

"Hey! Cut it out!" she admonished, giving him the same no-nonsense look he'd seen on Mike's face hundreds of times before. No wonder they got along so well.

"Sorry." But he didn't bother to hide the laughter in his eyes and voice that said he really wasn't. "What's up?"

"You've got company," she told him. The sea breeze whipped dark tendrils of hair into her face, and she brushed them back impatiently. "He's waiting for you up at the house."

"Who is it?" Micky glanced up at the ramshackle beach house as if that would reveal the answer. He wasn't expecting anyone, and he couldn't think who might drop in on him unannounced.

"I don't know," Isabel continued. "He wouldn't give his name. He just said he wanted to surprise you."

"Huh." He frowned a little, then shrugged. "Well, tell 'em I'll be there in a minute. I gotta get my stuff."

"Sure."

She headed back to the house, and Micky snickered quietly as he watched her swiping ineffectually at the salty drops that glistened on her bare arms. She was just as easy to pick on as Mike and for the same reason—they both wore their dignity like a garment, and there was nothing Micky enjoyed more than trying to fray the fabric. 

He trotted over to grab his tee shirt and pulled it on, unmindful that it clung to his still-damp skin, outlining his long, lithe torso. Then he collected his surfboard and towel before returning home to greet his mysterious guest.

~*~*~ 

As soon as he opened the door, Micky scanned the living room quickly, searching for the new arrival, who appeared to be engaged in deep conversation on the far side of the room with Davy, Mike, Peter and Isabel. His back was to the door, and from that side, Micky was still uncertain whom his guest might be.

"Hey, I'm back," he announced loudly, effectively interrupting the discussion.

The stranger paused for a moment, then pivoted on his heel, giving Micky a slow, lazy grin that he would have recognized anywhere.

"Eddie!"

Micky dropped his gear and raced across the room to fall in his cousin's outstretched arms. They pounded each other on the back, laughing as they inspected each other thoroughly.

"Man, you've grown!" Micky said, a trace of wonder in his voice. The last time he'd seen Eddie, the kid had barely reached his shoulder. Now his younger cousin was a full inch taller than he was! "What happened? You start eatin' your vegetables?"

"Nah," Eddie's mellow laughter held no evidence of the high-pitched cracking Micky remembered. His voice had changed into a smooth baritone, and for a minute Micky wondered if the kid had inherited any of the family's musical ability—he had the voice for it. "It's called growin' up, Mick. You oughta try it."

Micky punched him lightly in the stomach—a much modified version of the gut-busters he'd landed during their childhood fights—then slipped one arm around Eddie's shoulders and turned him to face the others. With them standing together like that with their heads slightly tilted towards each other, the family resemblance was clear to see: both had the same brown hair and brown eyes, and both had the same strong chin. 

"I guess you guys know each other now?" he asked, not wanting to make any unnecessary introductions.

"Well, I know who _they_ are..." Eddie said, and Micky suddenly remembered that Isabel had said the guest hadn't given his name.

"Guys, this is my cousin, Eddie Dolenz," he explained. "The former brat who used to loosen the skins on my drum kit and hide my drumsticks in the cat litter."

"And this is _my_ cousin, Micky Dolenz," Eddie countered. "The former nerd who used to use my head for bongos and who told Karen Lynn in front of the entire school that I was in love with her."

"It was _not_ the entire school," Micky argued, smiling as they fell into their usual bickering. He'd forgotten how much he'd missed it. "It was just Karen Lynn and about twenty of her closest friends. So there."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah..." Eddie paused and gave Micky a careful scrutiny. "What the heck did you do to your hair?" 

"Aw, I just wanted to see what it'd look like straight," Micky replied, running one hand over his hair and shrugging a little, feeling slightly embarrassed, especially when he looked at Eddie's unruly mop of curls to which his had once been identical. "You don't like it?" 

"It looks like shit," Eddie replied bluntly, but Micky knew better than to take offence, and he laughed instead. 

"Well, I don't know about you guys," Isabel commented, glancing up at Mike. "But _I'm_ beginning to feel like a fifth wheel."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," Mike agreed, but his amused expression assured Micky that his friends weren't feeling resentful about Eddie's sudden appearance. "We'll leave you two alone to catch up, okay?"

"Thanks, guys," he said, smiling with gratitude at their thoughtfulness. "I appreciate it."

"No problem, man," Davy waved his hand dismissively. "Catch you later, all right?"

Mike caught Isabel's hand, linking their fingers, then tugged gently to lead her towards the door; Davy followed, softly whistling "I Can't Get Her Off My Mind" just to annoy Isabel.

"Where are we going?" Peter asked as he obediently tagged along behind the others. 

"My place?" Isabel suggested, shooting Davy a quelling glare, but he merely grinned at her, unaffected and unrepentant. "Monopoly and brownies?"

That idea was met with unanimous approval, and Micky chuckled as the three guys practically picked her up and ran out the door. 

"Hey, save us a couple!" he yelled, and he thought he heard someone yell back "Maybe!" before the door slammed shut behind them.

Eddie had already sprawled on the couch, obviously making himself at home, and Micky dropped down on the opposite end, facing him with a gleam of anticipation in his dark eyes.

"Okay, kiddo," he began, settling back, preparing to listen. "What's been going on back home? I want all the details!"

~*~*~ 

Micky bounced out of bed much earlier than usual the next morning, brimming over with good humor and exciting plans for the day. He had a whole list of things he wanted to do with his cousin, and he couldn't wait to start playing tour guide.

"And I don't care what you say—" he sang quietly as he buttoned up his jeans and reached for a clean shirt that was tossed over a nearby chair...Well, clean- _ish_ shirt...The boundless energy roiling around inside him demanded a release in some form, and since he couldn't jump up and down on his bed like he wanted to without _really_ annoying his room-mate, the singing would have to suffice.

A few feet away in his own twin bed, Mike gave an incoherent groan, rolled onto his stomach and burrowed under his pillow.

"Tomorrow's gonna be another day—ay—ay—Hey hey hey hey!" Micky's light tenor voice rose, his exuberance taking on a life of its own as he thought about all the things he and Eddie could do while he was in town. Clubs—shows—Eddie could finally hear their group play—!

"Man, will you please shut up?" Mike lifted the pillow and fixed Micky with one sleepy brown eye. "I'm tryin' to sleep here."

"Sorry, man," Micky said, his voice muffled by his shirt as he pulled it over his head. It was just a plain forest green tee shirt, and he didn't bother tucking it in. "I'm just really glad Eddie's here, y'know?"

"Yeah, I know," Mike replied sardonically.

He sighed and threw his pillow over the side of the bed, obviously deciding further snoozing was out of the question. The sultry summer nights had made them all decide to sleep in as little as possible, and Mike had limited himself to a pair of thin cotton pajama bottoms that rode low on his hips as he hauled himself out of bed and stood up, yawning and knuckling sleep out of his eyes.

"So what are you gonna do today?" he asked, ambling over to the mirror. He peered at his tousled reflection, running a hand over his dark-stubbled chin.

"I dunno." Micky plopped down on the side of his bed and pulled on his socks. "I thought we'd drive around and catch all the tourist sights—star's houses, Graumann's theater, stuff like that."

He elbowed Mike out of the way and finger-combed his riotous mass of curls, then dropped to his hands and knees to look for his sneakers. He finally found them in a corner underneath two pairs of pants— _one_ of which was Mike's, he thought self-righteously—along with one of Davy's maracas, which he shook experimentally before shoving it in his back pocket to take downstairs.

"See you guys later!" he called as he dashed out the bedroom door; he hopped up on the banister and slid down, his arms held out perpendicular to keep himself balanced, leaping gracefully off as he reached the bottom. Much practice had allowed him to hone this move into an art, and he was pleased with his skill. Eddie was still sprawled on the couch, snoring. Micky grabbed one of the cushions and shook it roughly, unceremoniously rousing his cousin from a deep sleep. 

"C'mon, babe--time to get up!" he caroled, ignoring Eddie's grumbling. 

Eddie reluctantly threw back his light blanket and glared balefully at his older cousin through sleep-puffy eyes. 

"I don't remember you being this much of a morning person," he mumbled, running his fingers through his hair and yawning mightily.

"We gotta lot of things to do today!" Micky exclaimed, hurrying over to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, pausing just long enough to pull Davy's maraca out of his pocket and toss it on the kitchen table where it could be easily found. "I got big plans!"

"Oh..." Eddie glanced at him sheepishly. "I hope you didn't go to any trouble..."

Micky waved away the notion. "Nah, no trouble," he replied. "How could I let my favorite cousin stay here without giving him the grand tour?"

"Look," Eddie stood up, regarding Micky with an expression that seemed both guarded and guilty at the same time, and Micky stared back, suddenly puzzled. He'd expected Eddie to show a little more enthusiasm, but what he was seeing seemed to be more like reluctance. "I hate to be a drag, but could we just kinda hang out around here today?"

Micky's face fell, a mirror of the disappointment he felt. "Well, sure...If that's what you want..."

"It's not that I don't _want_ to sight-see with you," Eddie hastened to assure him. "It's just--" He paused, appearing as if he wasn't sure how to continue.

Micky put the coffee pot on the counter and moved back to stand near his cousin. He was picking up some strange vibes, and he wanted to find out what was causing them.

"Look, I didn't want to get into this," Eddie continued. "But you've got a right to know why I'm acting weird."

"More than usual, you mean?" Micky couldn't resist the jab, and Eddie stuck his tongue out at him before continuing.

"It was getting pretty heavy at home--a real bad scene, y'know?" Before Micky could respond one way or another or ask what kind of heavy scene it was, Eddie hurried on. "So I had to get out for a while. I needed a break, and I figured you wouldn't mind if I dropped by. It's just for a couple of days." His tone turned wheedling, but Micky didn't have any intention of refusing him. 

"Sure, man--stay as long as you want." He paused, a thought occurring to him. "Do Aunt Claire and Uncle Hal know you're here? Do you wanna call 'em and let 'em know you're okay?"

Eddie averted his eyes then and his voice sounded odd as he answered. "No--and do me a favor, man. If they call, don't tell 'em I'm here, okay? Let's just keep it between you and me for a while."

"Look, if it's that bad--" Micky began, troubled that Eddie was going to such lengths to avoid his own parents. His aunt and uncle were good people--not like some overbearing, overprotective parents he'd seen--and he didn't want them unnecessarily worried either.

"No, no--I just need some time."

"Time for what?" Micky pressed, confused. There was a piece or two missing from this puzzle, and he couldn't figure out what they might be.

"Just--time, man. A break from the pressure," Eddie said wearily, slumping back on the couch and dropping his head in his hands.

A thousand questions burned on Micky's tongue, but he remained silent, sensing that he wasn't going to get anything more from his cousin at the moment; the young man was bothered by something that he wasn't ready to talk about yet, but perhaps when he was, he would confide in Micky. Meanwhile, he would wait and let Eddie wrestle his demons privately for a while longer--but not forever.

~*~*~ 

But the couple of days turned into four, and Eddie still showed no signs of opening up. On the contrary, he seemed to withdraw deeper and deeper inside himself, and Micky watched and worried as his cousin drifted farther away. Even the others, who didn't know him as well, noticed something odd about his behavior.

"Look, man, is your cousin always like this?" Davy asked after he cornered Micky alone in the upstairs bedroom. "He's been acting awfully weird."

"Yeah, I know," Micky replied, his normally cheerful face drawn into anxious lines. "I don't know what's going on."

"D'you realize he hasn't been out of the house since he got here?" Davy added, and Micky stared at him, surprised.

He thought for a moment, replaying the past few days in his head, and he realized Davy was right: Eddie had refused every offer to go anywhere with them. He didn't go the gig they played at Club Cassandra. He hadn't even been out on the beach to surf or play volleyball. Nothing. He'd just made excuses for why he couldn't go and stayed inside, saying very little and appearing to be immersed in grim thoughts. 

"He's not on anything, is he?"

"I dunno..." Micky glanced out the bedroom door in the direction of downstairs where his cousin was helping Peter make dinner. For once his eyes weren't dancing--they were troubled, all mirth fled from the dark brown depths.

"Well, something's bringing him down," Davy said matter-of-factly, folding his arms across his chest. "Maybe you should talk to him."

"Yeah," Micky nodded agreement, his expression turning determined. "I think I better do that."

He went downstairs, not sliding down the banister this time; Davy followed him down, but he quickly disappeared into the bedroom he shared with Peter, and Micky appreciated his tact. Eddie was still in the kitchen with Peter, and as he came down the steps, Micky could hear him suggesting that perhaps tobasco sauce wasn't the best garnish for chocolate pudding.

"Hey, man," Micky said in a low voice as he grasped Eddie's elbow and steered him a little away from Peter, who--happily engrossed in his latest culinary masterpiece--didn't notice his assistant's disappearance. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Yeah, sure." Eddie gave him a searching look, and Micky could see the tension lurking in his cousin's eyes. "Is something wrong?"

"That's what I wanna ask _you_ ," he replied, his tone quiet but clearly brooking no argument. He wasn't about to let Eddie get away the same kind of vague responses he'd offered earlier; he wanted answers, and he wasn't going to get off Eddie's back until he had them.

He guided Eddie into the living room where Mike was lounging on the sofa, reading. Mike glanced up, caught the look on Micky's face and cleared out, immediately heading to the windowseat at the back of the room, well out of earshot. That was the closest thing they were going to get to privacy in this particular house, and Micky took advantage of it, dropping on to the vacated couch and pulling Eddie down beside him.

"All right, kiddo--" Micky growled, trying to sound as stern as possible. He wouldn't get anywhere if Eddie didn't take this discussion seriously. "You've been acting real weird ever since you got here, and I wanna know what's goin' on."

"I told you, man--" Eddie protested, holding up his hands as if he were warding off an attack. "Things were getting bad at home--"

"I know what you told me," Micky interrupted. "But that doesn't answer my question. What was so bad?"

Eddie averted his eyes and crossed his arms, effectively closing Micky out through his body language. "Just leave it alone, Mick," he retorted, his voice turning harsh and cold. "I don't wanna talk about it, and you wouldn't understand anyway."

"How do you know?" Micky persisted, trying to push his way through Eddie's barriers. As much as they had always teased and harrassed each other, Micky had always felt more like Eddie's older brother than his cousin, and he wanted to help if he could.

"Because you've never been in anything like this!" he exploded. Raw anger and fear shone naked on his face, contorting his mild features into a distorted mask, and Micky gaped at him, shocked into silence.

The moment spun out into infinity as they stared at each other, separated by a gulf Micky couldn't even recognize, much less cross. He groped for words, something--anything--to say that might help ease Eddie's burden, but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out. All his usual glibness had deserted him, and his wit was useless in the face of his cousin's pain.

"Aw, just forget it. I knew it was a mistake coming here," Eddie snapped.

Before Micky could utter a word of protest, Eddie jumped up and stormed out of the room, slamming the front door shut behind him. 

Micky stared at the plain wood door as if that would make Eddie materialize again, but long minutes passed, and the younger man didn't return. He sat there, recounting the conversation--what little there had been of it--over and over again, trying to figure out what his cousin might have meant, to understand what had gone wrong.

He was distantly aware of the phone ringing, but he was too lost in his own thoughts to realize he ought to get up and answer it. After a while, it stopped, and a moment later, he was jerked back to reality by a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Mick? It's for you." Mike's voice penetrated Micky's mental fog, and he stood and walked over to the phone, moving with all the liveliness of a zombie.

"Hello?" His voice sounded dull and lifeless even to his own ears, and he hoped he could cut this conversation short. He wasn't in the mood to be sociable. 

"Micky?" 

The familiar voice immediately snapped him to attention, and he answered with considerably more enthusiasm. "Aunt Claire? Is that you?" 

"Yes--" She sounded tired, and he could certainly understand why. "I'm sorry to bother you, but--" 

He heard a tell-tale hitch in her voice, and he clutched the phone receiver tighter against his ear, bursting with the desire to offer some comfort, but bound by his promise to remain silent.

"Eddie has run away," she continued, drawing in a deep breath to steady herself. "I know how close you two have always been, and I thought he might have gotten in touch with you."

"Um--he's not here--" Micky said hesitantly, grateful she had called at the one time Eddie indeed wasn't in the house so he wouldn't have to lie--exactly.

"I don't want to know where he is," she said firmly, which surprised him. Had the problems been so bad Eddie had alienated his family? "But I need you to give him a message if you _do_ see him."

"Okay, sure," Micky almost sighed with relief that she wanted something so simple. Now if Eddie would only come back...

"Tell him--tell him that his father has hired a private detective to find him."

"A private detective--?" Micky yelped, growing more confused and shocked by the second. "What--? Why--?"

On the other end of the line, he heard a tremulous sigh, and when she finally spoke again, Aunt Claire sounded as if she were fighting back tears.

"Micky--sweetheart--" She paused, and he heard what might have been either a cough or a sob.

Then the final puzzle piece fell into place. 

"Eddie has been drafted."

~*~*~ 

"Mike, I've got a problem."

Micky placed the receiver in its cradle before it could slip from his suddenly nerveless fingers, then he turned to Mike, his face ashen. It hadn't been long after they moved in together that he, Peter and Davy had found themselves instinctively turning to Mike for answers and guidance; Mike hadn't asked to be cast in the role of unofficial big brother, but he had accepted and borne the mantle without complaint. Now Micky took for granted that he would be there as a sounding board--and he had never needed one more.

Mike had hovered nearby during the entire conversation, not so close as to be intrusive, but near enough for Micky to feel his supportive presence; now he regarded Micky worriedly, seeming ready to listen.

"What's wrong?" he asked simply, and Micky had to choke back near-hysterical laughter.

What was _right_?

His cousin had been drafted, and from what Micky knew about what was going on in Vietnam, "drafted" was almost equivalent to "death."

"It's Eddie, man--" Micky faltered, not wanting to say it aloud because that would make it true. "He's been drafted. Aunt Claire said he's supposed to report in two weeks, but--"

"But he's running away?" Mike finished for him, his dark eyes growing wide and round with concern. "That means he's a draft-dodger..."

"I know, but--" Micky began, then trailed off, not knowing what to say. He couldn't blame his cousin for wanting to run, but he couldn't really condone breaking the law either. It was just a bad scene all the way around.

"Do they know he's here?"

"Well, Aunt Claire said she figured Eddie'd get in touch with me, but she said she didn't want to know for sure because Uncle Hal hired a private detective to track Eddie down and bring him home. He wants to force Eddie to show up," Micky explained.

Mike crossed over to the sofa and sat down heavily, shaking his head. "Isn't that a little extreme?"

"Yeah, well," Micky shrugged and gave a wry grin. "Uncle Hal served in North Africa in World War Two--he was a war hero, and he thinks Eddie's a coward for not wanting to go. Aunt Claire says he's furious, and he's threatening to disown him if he doesn't come back."

"Better disowned than _dead_ ," Mike retorted tartly. 

"Yeah..." Micky threw himself on the couch next to Mike and sighed. "Man, no wonder Eddie's been freakin' out."

Mike fell silent for a moment, and when Micky sneaked a glance at him, he seemed deep in thought; suddenly, he sat up straight, his features suffused with alarm.

"Hey, look, man--" he began, anxiety making his words tumble over each other in a rush to get out. "If your aunt suspects he's here, then your uncle probably does too, and this'll be the first place that detective will look."

Micky gaped at him silently for a moment, his eyes round with horror. "You're right! We gotta warn Eddie--he can't stay here. It's not safe anymore."

"D'you think he's coming back?" 

"Probably," Micky nodded. "He left all his stuff."

Mike rose to his feet and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops as he looked down at Micky. "Well, there's twenty-five bucks in the mad money jar. It's not much, but if he wants to use it to buy a bus ticket somewhere, tell him he can have it."

Micky stood up and smiled. "Thanks, man..." He dropped his hand on Mike's shoulder, not sure how to express his gratitude, but hoping it showed. Apparently it did, because Mike got one of those "aw, shucks" looks on his face and glanced away the way he always did when he was embarrassed.

"Babbitt'll raise a fuss about us being short on the rent again, but it's nothing we haven't heard before," Mike shrugged and gave an impish little grin.

He turned then and started to leave, but Micky called him back. "Hey, Mike--"

"Yeah?" Mike regarded him curiously, and Micky hesitated, not sure how to ask what he wanted to know.

"What Eddie's doing--running away and all--" He paused, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels. "D'you think he's doing something wrong? I mean, what am I supposed to tell the detective if he _does_ come here? Eddie's breaking the law, and I could get in trouble too if I get caught lying for him." Another thought occurred to him, and he added, "Even if I said I didn't know what was going on, who'd believe me? I'd be just another long-haired weirdo harboring a fugitive."

Mike just looked at him for a long moment, his dark eyes never leaving Micky's as if somehow he was peering down into Micky's very soul. Micky resisted the urge to squirm, feeling like he was being pried open. 

"I tell you what, Mick," he began quietly. "The government would say that yeah, he _is_ doing something wrong, but that's just 'cause he's not doing what they want him to do. But I don't know if what Eddie's doing is right or wrong. I don't even know what _I_ would do, so how can I judge him? You'll just have to decide that for yourself."

And with that, he left Micky alone, slipping out the front door and closing it quietly behind himself.

Micky watched him go silently, then sprawled on the couch again, covering his face with both hands.

He'd have to decide for himself....Well, that was the kicker, wasn't it? For as long as he could remember, he'd admired Uncle Hal. He'd loved hearing all his uncle's war stories about all the heroic things he'd done in the war--how he'd won the purple heart, how he'd rescued three men right out from under a German squadron's collective noses, how he'd actually seen Rommel on the battlefield once. Micky had eaten it up when he was a kid, and afterward, he and Eddie had always gone outside to play War, pretending to wage bloody battles in the desert sands with cardboard boxes for tanks. He had wanted to be like Uncle Hal when he grew up--he had wanted to fight for his country and come home with tons of medals awarded for his acts of bravery and honor.

But this war was different somehow. No one could deny that Hitler had been cruel, but this time, there was no black or white. Only shades of grey. He gave a mirthless laugh, amused at himself for quoting their own lyrics, but they were morbidly appropriate. 

To be honest, a part of him still felt the pride and patriotism that Uncle Hal's words had stirred within him as a child, but another part of him whispered that he wasn't sure what he would do if he were drafted either--he didn't want to learn how to kill, and he didn't want to die.

Was that how Eddie felt? 

"Micky?"

He dropped his hands and opened his eyes to see Peter standing over him wearing his little white apron, chef's hat and oven mitts and clutching a spoon. 

"Yes, Peter?"

"I wasn't listening," Peter began hesitantly. "But I overheard--"

"That's okay, Pete," Micky assured him wearily. "I didn't expect it to stay a secret."

Peter put his spoon down on the coffee table and pulled off his oven mitts, stuffing them in the pockets of his apron, then stood at the end of the couch, watching Micky with a sympathetic expression.

"I'm really sorry," he continued. "But if you ask me, I think Eddie did the right thing."

"You do?" 

"Yeah," Peter smiled sweetly. "Make love, not war."

And with that, he too left, following Mike's path out the front door.

~*~*~ 

Micky dug his toes into the cooling sand and watched as the sun sank into the ocean. The rising moon was a thin sliver, and few stars glistened in the inky sky, most obscured by clouds--much like Micky's own thoughts. The night breeze sifting through his hair was chilly, making goosebumps rise on his bare chest and arms, but he ignored it. He wasn't ready to go back to the pad even though he knew the others would be nothing but compassionate and supportive; they were the best friends he could have, and he knew it, but right then he just needed to be alone.

The roar of the waves lulled him into a meditative state, and he allowed his mind to drift as he stared out at the almost void-like blackness of the ocean, broken only by the whitecaps cresting at the top of each wave. But as tumultuous as his thoughts were, they produced no answers, and he was left just as confused as before.

He sighed, glancing down at the sand between his feet for a moment before slowly standing up, bracing himself to return to the real world.

"Hey, cuz."

Micky whirled around, wide-eyed with shock as he gaped at Eddie. 

"You scared me half to death!" he exclaimed testily, pressing a hand to his heart and staggering backwards to emphasize his point.

"Sorry." Eddie cracked a tiny smile at his cousin's antics. "What're you doing out here by yourself?"

"Thinking about you," Micky admitted. He didn't see any point in beating around the bush, not with such an important topic. "Aunt Claire called--"

"Yeah, Mike told me," Eddie interrupted. 

"Did he tell you about the detective?" Micky pressed, and Eddie nodded.

"Yeah, he told me about that, too..." he sighed, his shoulders slumping as if weakened by a heavy weight.

"Eddie..." Micky spoke slowly, hoping his cousin wouldn't get mad at what he was about to say. "If you skip the country, what then? I mean, you might not be able to come back, even after the war is over--and who knows when that's gonna be anyway? You'll be a criminal--"

"You think I don't know that?" Eddie barked. "If I leave, it means losing my family. Even though Mom doesn't agree with Pop, I won't be able to see her or talk to her no matter where I am. He'll make sure I can't."

"So what're you gonna do?" Micky asked in a small voice, not knowing if he really wanted to hear the answer.

"Man, I still don't know," Eddie replied, his voice laced with anguish. "The last thing Pop said before I left was that he wouldn't claim a coward for a son, and part of me thinks he's right. You've heard the stories--somebody in our family has fought in every major war since the Revolution, and it makes me feel like I'm betraying _everybody_ ," he said miserably. "But all those other wars, man--they had a _reason_ , y'know? They made sense, but the more I hear about Nam, the more I gotta wonder why I should go over there and risk getting killed over nothing."

"It's not over _nothing_ \--" Micky gave a half-hearted protest. He didn't want to believe that his country would deliberately waste young lives.

"Then what's it about?" Eddie countered. "Saving the world from Communism? That's what they say, but if France couldn't win, why do we think _we_ can?" He paused, staring out over the black ocean for a moment before continuing. "I wanna do the right thing," he said quietly. "I wanna fight for my country; I want Pop to be proud of me. I don't wanna be a criminal, but, Micky, I'm scared!"

"Guys have come home," Micky said, trying to offer some kind of support. "Just because you get sent over there doesn't mean you'll die."

Eddie watched him quietly for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was level but intense.

"You remember that kid we used to hang out with, Key Gray?"

"Yeah--!" Micky replied eagerly. "He used to let us borrow his pop gun when we played war."

"That's the one," Eddie nodded. "He was killed in action last year. You remember Doug?"

"The short kid who asked me to teach him to play drums, right?"

"Yep." Eddie's tone was clipped now--cold and matter-of-fact. "His chopper was shot down in '66. Remember Russ Winters?"

Micky's mind reeled as he fought to process all that Eddie was hitting him with, and his voice was distant as he answered this time.

"He climbed that big pine all the way to the top on a dare, and he almost fell out."

"Missing in action for almost six months."

Who was left? Micky wanted to shriek, but his throat closed up tight. He'd been so wrapped up in the band and trying to succeed in the music business that he hadn't kept up with his childhood friends. He hadn't heard about any of this--hadn't even known they'd _gone_ to Vietnam...

"Look, I just came out here to say good-bye," Eddie continued, his manner softening. 

"Where're you going?" Micky asked, his voice sounding strangled even to himself.

"Dunno," Eddie replied bluntly. "And it's probably better that you don't either...I've still got two weeks to think about it. If I decide--" He faltered, took a deep breath and continued, "If I decide to go home, I'll call you."

Micky watched as his cousin turned and walked back to the beach house. For a moment, he felt paralyzed, and his mind sent out nothing but static. All those guys--gone! And Eddie could be next...

"Hey! Wait up!" he called, suddenly realizing his legs were under his own control again.

He sprinted to catch up with Eddie, who obligingly stopped and waited for him. The two young men gazed steadily at each other, neither speaking as the waves crashed on the shore behind them. The evening wind whipped around them in a sudden, chilly gust, and Eddie shivered, ending the moment. Micky wordlessly slipped his arm around his cousin's shoulders and guided him back into the house one last time.

~*~*~ 

Peter, Mike and Davy practically tip-toed around Micky as he slumped on the couch, waiting for Eddie to finish packing and come downstairs again; after his first night, Mike had traded places with him, taking the couch so the two cousins could share a room. Micky hadn't been able to resist suggesting that he ask Isabel if he could stay in _her_ guest room, earning a warning glare from the Texas gentleman. That had been when he still felt like cracking jokes, but now teasing and kidding around were the furthest things from his mind.

Davy and Mike pretended to play checkers, but it was apparent that their minds weren't on the game; they both kept glancing over at Micky, than at each other, looking as if they wanted to express some kind of support or sympathy, but neither knew what to say.

Peter offered Micky a bowl of pudding which Micky considered accepting before he remembered the conversation he'd overheard earlier; he thanked Peter for the offer but passed--he didn't have too much of an appetite anyway--and Peter retreated to the kitchen to eat it himself. 

For once, the pad was dead silent--no music, no laughing, no talking, no thunderous crashes--thus the unexpected knock on the door seemed that much louder, and they all jumped, startled by the sudden noise. Micky was closest to the door, so he hauled himself upright and slogged over to answer it; he half-way expected to see Isabel, or perhaps Mr. Babbitt with yet another eviction threat, but the man standing before him was a stranger. 

"Is this 1334 North Beechwood?" The man glanced down at a slip of paper in his hand, then back at Micky. He was perhaps in his forties, dressed in a business suit, and Micky's stomach plummeted as a warning flashed in his head.

The detective was here.

"Yes, it is," Micky answered politely, putting on his best "I'm a nice young man" face.

"Does a George Michael Dolenz live here?" The older man continued, not cracking a smile. He was no-nonsense all the way, and Micky's nerves stretched tight. This would not be the kind of man to forgive and forget if he was lied to. Both he and Eddie would be in for some serious trouble if Micky didn't tell him the truth now and the lie was discovered later. He glanced quickly over his shoulder; to his relief, he saw that even though Davy still sat turning a checker token over and over in his slender fingers, Mike's chair was empty, and he felt certain Mike had slipped upstairs to warn Eddie not to come down.

"Yeah, Micky--that's me," he replied. "Would you like to come in?" He waved the man inside as if he had nothing to hide. 

The older man stepped over the threshold, his sharp eyes scanning the room, appearing to take in everything and store it up in some mental filing cabinet.

"What can I do for you, sir?" Micky asked, hoping the guy would get to the point.

"My name is Burroughs. I'm here about your cousin, Edward Dolenz," the detective rapped out, his bushy eyebrows drawing together in a forbidding scowl.

"Oh?" Micky forced himself to maintain an innocent air. "What about him?"

"Your uncle hired me to find him," Burroughs replied, his eyes still darting around the room as if he expected Eddie to pop out at any moment. In the kitchen, Peter put down his spoon and pushed the bowl of pudding away, watching Burroughs with worry evident in his eyes; Davy had put on his best poker face, regarding the unfolding events dispassionately, and Micky wanted to applaud the performance. He could only hope he appeared as nonchalant.

"Have you had any contact with him during the last four days?"

There it was.

Whatever path Micky chose now would affect not only him but everyone else in this house as well. If he told Burroughs the truth, he might save himself a great deal of trouble, but Eddie's troubles would just be starting. If he lied, he risked getting not only himself but also Mike, Peter and Davy in trouble as well. They were his room-mates after all; they could hardly claim ignorance if Micky were caught. And Eddie would be a fugitive criminal if he didn't choose to go home...

"No, sir, I haven't," Micky said at last, hoping he sounded convincing. "Is he in some kind of trouble?"

"Your uncle hasn't informed you of what's going on?" Burroughs peered at Micky through narrowed eyes as if weighing the truth of each word.

"No, sir," Micky replied. That, at least, was nothing more than the truth. His _uncle_ hadn't told him anything. "I haven't heard from any of them in quite a while. I don't get home much," he added with an apologetic shrug.

"It's not my place to discuss it," Burroughs informed him brusquely. He reached into his inner jacket pocket, pulled out a white business card and held it out.

Micky took it, glancing at it to confirm what he already knew: Burroughs was indeed the private investigator his aunt had told him about. With a little nod, he slipped it into his back pocket as Burroughs continued.

"If you see your cousin, call me immediately. This is extremely important to Mr. Dolenz. You do understand that?"

Micky forced himself to squelch his instinctive reaction--an annoyed grimace--and schooled his features into bland courtesy. "Sure, I understand. If Eddie gets in touch with me, I get in touch with you. No problem."

Burroughs gave him one last searching look, then nodded as if he were satisfied. "Good. See that you do."

With that, the detective turned and strode out the door without another word, and Micky had to resist the urge to slam the door behind him. He leaned against the door for a moment, then cracked it open again and peeked out to make sure Burroughs was truly gone. Satisfied, Micky closed the door again, clenched his fists and started jumping up and down.

"Ooo! That guy--!" he exclaimed, punching the air with both fists. "Oo! 'You do understand?' I oughta--"

"Hey, Mick--"

Micky stopped his rant long enough to glance up and see Mike and Eddie standing on the upstairs landing; Eddie looked down at his cousin with a mixture of relief and amazement.

"You didn't tell him."

It was a statement, not a question, but Micky answered him anyway.

"No, man--how could I? This is something you've got to decide for yourself," he said pragmatically, echoing Mike's words, but they were wise words, and Micky knew it. "If I'd told that jerk you were here, the decision would've been made _for_ you, and that's just not fair." 

Eddie bounded down the steps two at a time and threw his arms around Micky's neck. 

"Thanks, Micky," he whispered, his voice sounding suspiciously tear-clogged. "You and Mom understand, and that helps a lot. I need someone on my side."

"Hey, you got it, babe," Micky replied softly, feeling a salty sting in his own eyes as he returned the embrace.

Mike had carried Eddie's bags down, and he now stood quietly by, holding them; Eddie stepped back, swiped his forearm across his eyes and reached out for the luggage and set it down at his side. A thought popped into Micky's head, and he grabbed Eddie's arm to keep him from leaving.

"Wait here," he instructed, then he dashed into the kitchen where they kept the mad money jar. 

He snatched off the lid, upturned the jar so that all the bills and loose change rained down on the counter, and he scooped it all up in both hands before hurrying back to where Eddie stood observing Micky's mad rush with growing curiosity on his face.

"Here," Micky offered him the money. "You might need this. It's not a lot..."

"Thanks," Eddie smiled gratefully as he stuffed the cash into his pocket. "I owe you--"

"No, you don't," Micky cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Just get outta here before that Burroughs guy decides to stake out the house."

Eddie picked up his bags again and, with a quiet good-bye to the others who had gathered around Micky in a non-verbal but undeniable show of support, he walked out of the pad without a backwards glance.

The four he left behind stood silent for several minutes, all seeming to be lost in their own thoughts; Davy clapped his hand on one of Micky's shoulders, and Peter rested his head on the other while Mike stood behind the three of them, not touching them, but simply lending strength through his mere presence. Micky allowed himself to relax and soak up the comfort his friends offered; he'd felt as if he were on the verge of freaking out himself, but he was regaining his stability now thanks to them. 

"What d'you think he's gonna do?" Davy asked, his voice hushed as if he were hesitant to break the silence.

"Man, I got no idea," Micky replied, shaking his head. "I don't think _he_ knows."

"It'll be okay, Micky," Peter murmured soothingly. 

Micky didn't answer; he didn't want to throw Peter's attempts to be encouraging back in his face, but he knew that whatever decision Eddie made, things were not likely to be okay. There was nothing "okay" about the situation Eddie had been thrust into--and how many other young men had experienced the same thing? How many more were yet to come?

No, it wasn't okay. It wouldn't ever be again, not for Eddie. The best Micky hoped for was that his cousin would survive wherever he was and that he would remember there were people who held him close in their thoughts.

~*~*~ 

"...We regret to inform you that on April 12, 1968, Private William Edward Dolenz was killed in action..."


End file.
